Raissa Grigoryevna, what makes you think I should support your son? He’s my husband, a real man; it’s his job to provide for me, not the other way around!

I recall the day when Mrs. Margaret Whitmore, my motherinlaw, stood in the doorway of our modest terraced house in Leeds and declared, Emma, why are you the one expected to keep my son fed? He is my husband, a man, and it is his duty to look after me, not the other way around. The words hung in the air like a cold draft from an open window.

It had begun with a bright knock. Emma, its me! Ive brought fresh cabbage pies, just the way Edward loves them! called a voice, eager and insistent, refusing any pretense that the house was empty. I dried my hands on a tea towel, cast a brief, weighted glance at Edward, who sat at the kitchen table nursing a cooling cup of tea, his face the picture of a tormented artist sunk deep in existential dread. The knock seemed merely a nuisance in his otherwise tangled world.

When I turned the lock, I forced a polite smile onto my face. There, on the threshold, stood Mrs. Whitmore, a solidbuilt woman in a fine wool coat, her eyes sharp as a hawks and a paper bag in her hand that exhaled the yeasty scent of homebaked dough. She did not step in; she glided into the hallway, bringing with her an aura of unassailable righteousness.

Good afternoon, Emma. Why do you look so pale? Are you unwell? she asked, shedding her coat and scanning the flat with a scrutinising stare. Wheres Edward? In the kitchen? I thought so.

Without waiting for invitation, Mrs. Whitmore marched to the kitchen, instantly shattering the immaculate order I prized. The sleek ceramic surfaces and the spare, almost clinical décor felt out of place for such a maternal display. Edward finally lifted his gaze, offered a weak nod, and forced a smile that barely reached his eyes.

Mother, hello. Why so early? he asked.

For a mother, there is never a wrong hour, dear, she replied, placing the bag of pies on the table like a banner. I saw youve grown thin and slumped; I brought something to fortify you. Eat while theyre hot.

I set the kettle on the stove in silence, moving with a smooth, almost soundless grace that concealed a storm of tension. I felt like an actress in a wellrehearsed play where every line was already known. The prelude began: talk of the weather, distant relatives health, the rising price of butter at the market. Once the air was seasoned with this domestic husk, Mrs. Whitmore would move to the main course.

Your house is always spotless, Emmaalmost sterile, she remarked, running a finger across the countertop and sighing with satisfaction at the lack of dust. But it lacks a touch of warmth. A man needs comfort, especially in such a trying time.

I poured her a cup of tea.

Would you like black or green? I asked.

Black, as always. Edward, you should at least have a pie. Its still warm. You sit there looking famished, its a pain to watch, she said, gently nudging a plate toward him.

Edward sighed dramatically, lifted a pie, and turned it over in his hands as though it were a philosophical artifact rather than a simple roll of cabbagefilled dough. Not now, Mother. My thoughts are elsewhere, he murmured.

That was the signal. Mrs. Whitmores attention snapped to me, her expression shifting to one of practiced sympathy honed over years.

See, Emma? The fellow is lost in himself, seeking meaning. A creative soul cannot simply trot from one doorbell to the next. He needs time to rethink, to find a new path. In moments like these, a womans wisdom is to offer a shoulder, to understand and accept, she intoned softly, her words wrapping the room like a heavy blanket.

Edward listened with a martyrs stare, nodding in muted agreement. I continued to fill the mugs, the steam rising like the only honest breath in that kitchen. When Mrs. Whitmore paused to collect herself, I met her gaze directly. The pause stretched; her tone hardened.

Emma, Edward is struggling, you must support him, put yourself in his shoes

The words clicked like a guns trigger. I placed the kettle on its coaster with deliberate care; the clack of ceramic against metal rang sharp as a shot. I turned, my smile vanished, my stare now cold and unwavering. Edward instinctively pressed his forehead against the counter, feeling the shift in the atmosphere.

Mrs. Whitmore, let us dispense with the pet names, I said evenly, voice devoid of emotion, which made it all the more threatening. Your son is a fortyyearold man, not a stray pup you must shelter and warm. I have explained everything to him plainly, without your riddles or sighs. Either he finds a job tomorrowbe it as a porter, a courier, anythingor he packs his things and goes looking for himself with you.

The mask of concern fell from Mrs. Whitmores face, revealing a stern, displeased expression. She straightened in her chair, her figure becoming almost monumental.

What are you saying

Exactly that, I interjected, not raising my voice. I stepped to the table, resting my fingertips lightly upon it. You raised him this waynow you must understand his position. I married a partner, not a venture that demands endless, unrecoverable investment. I have no ballast around my neck, Mrs. Whitmore.

The word ballast lingered in the air. Edward flinched, as if struck, and finally found his voice.

Emma, why are you speaking like this in front of Mother

Neither of the women turned to him. Their duel continued, his meek protest merely background noise.

I always knew you lacked a heart, hissed Mrs. Whitmore, her eyes narrowing. Only a calculator in your headmoney, money, money What of the soul? Do you even grasp what creative burnout is? It isnt laziness! Its the emptiness after giving everything to work and now needing to replenish yourself. And you with your interviews! You expect a genius to deliver pizza?

I laughed a short, soundless chuckle, far scarier than a scream.

Genius? Mrs. Whitmore, spare me. Your son isnt a delicate spirit but a thick layer of infantility youve nurtured for forty years. Youve chased him with pies, dusted his shoulders, told him hes special and misunderstood. He grew up convinced of his own uniqueness, yet he can prove it only with sighs over cold tea. His burnout struck the day he was asked to take responsibility.

Each word struck like a measured blow. I was not accusing, merely stating facts, and that cold certainty humbled him more than any hysteria. I sentenced not only Edward but the entire upbringing Mrs. Whitmore had provided.

My son is gifted! she exclaimed, slapping the table so the cups jumped. And you, you mercenary shrew, care only for money, not for what stirs in his heart! You want him to bring home the rent while he lies on the sofa, while his wife works to pay the bills. Spare me your womans wisdom. Youve already applied yourslook at the result, sitting before me, unable to speak in his own defence. Ive had enough. Finish your tea and take your seeker with you. He needs a suitcase.

My words fell onto the kitchen table like acid, eating away the thin veneer of family decorum. Edward, who had seemed a pale shadow, straightened. He rose slowly, his movement theatrical, as if rehearsed. He pushed the untouched pie aside, as though renouncing his connection to simple, earthly cravings, and faced menot as a husband, but as a prophet confronting a lost flock.

You never understood, he began, voice low yet resonant, you always tried to fit me into your paradigmwork, salary, holiday. The primitive cycle of mere existence. You see only the surface, Emma, the wrapper. I speak of essence, of the core!

Mrs. Whitmore seized the moment, her voice proud.

Do you hear him? Do you understand a single word he says? He feels cramped in your little world, cramped!

Edward lifted a hand, halting her. It was his final act.

I didnt quit as you simplistically phrase it, he declared, stepping forward as if delivering a lecture. I left a system that crushes individuality, turning a person into a cog. I am not seeking work; I am seeking purpose. That is a wholly different quest, demanding time, immersion, concentration. It is inner labour, a spiritual toil far harder than shuffling papers from nine to five.

He spoke with the selfsatisfaction of a man convinced of his own grandeur, painting himself as an unheard titan forced to explain the cosmos to a rustic who had only just learned to make fire.

So what have you achieved in these two weeks of spiritual labour, Edward? I asked, my calm as icy as winter frost, a calm that irritated him more than any shout. Discovered a new law of thermodynamics while lounging on the sofa? Or attained Zen by bingewatching dramas?

Thats it! he exclaimed, pointing at the ceiling. Thats your problem! You try to measure spiritual capital in material units! You cannot grasp burnout when you drain not the body but the soul! I gave the corporation my best years, my entire vigor, and in return I got emptiness. And instead of helping me refill, you demand I return to that slavery! For what? A new phone? A seaside holiday where people photograph their meals?

Exactly! For that! Mrs. Whitmore snapped, her maternal rage full. She doesnt understand that youre a man of great flight! She needs a workhorse, not an eagle, to pull her cart!

I watched the duet of selfjustification and infantility, feeling something dark and cold boil within me. I looked at the fortyyearold man with the preachers fire in his eyes, at his mother reverencing her son, and the picture completed itself. This was not a quarrel, nor a family spat. It was a collision of worlds built on lies, ego, and a pathological refusal to take responsibility. I would no longer play their game.

Mrs. Whitmore, on what grounds do you think I must support your son? I said, my voice firm, He is my husband; a man should provide for his wife, not the other way about! Your protective nonsense stops here!

The words detonated the kitchen. For a breathless moment, absolute stillness settled, as if even the dust motes in the sunbeam froze. Edwards mouth hung open; his preachers pose collapsed into the awkward slump of a bewildered teen. Mrs. Whitmores face flushed crimson, a gasp escaping her lungs. She tried to shout, but I gave her no chance.

I turned and left the kitchen, my steps measured, unhurried, each footfall deliberate. Edward and Mrs. Whitmore exchanged a puzzled, uneasy glance.

A minute later I returned, dragging a large navyblue suitcase on wheelsthe very one we had used on our wedding holiday years ago. I set it squarely on the floor between the table and the stunned pair, snapped its locks, and flung the lid open. Its hollow interior stared back like a gaping grave.

Emma what are you doing? Edward stammered, finally finding his voice. I did not look his way. I walked to the tall wardrobe where his overcoat hung, lifted the expensive cashmere coat I had gifted him for his last birthday, and placed it into the suitcase.

This is for seeking yourself in cold realities, I said, my tone flat and metallic, not even glancing at the garment. It will keep you warm while you contemplate lofty matters.

Next, I opened the dresser drawer and removed a stack of his perfectly ironed shirts, tossing them into the case, crumpled and carelessly tossed.

These are for interviews. For the role of genius, messiah, spiritual guru. Usually such positions have no dress code, but lets give it some dignity.

Edward watched this ritual with horror. It was no mere packing; it was a public dismantling of his identity, a methodical erasure of his legend. I took each relic of his past life and stripped it of meaning, leaving only utilitarian purpose.

Stop! Emma, enough! he cried, trying to seize my hand, but I sidestepped as if he were nothing more than dirt.

I moved to the shelf holding his booksvolumes on selfimprovement, philosophy, purpose. I gathered them in a heap and dumped them atop the shirts.

These are spiritual food for the road. Far more needed than the ordinary, because the ordinary, as we have learned, must be provided by someone else.

Mrs. Whitmore, recovering from her shock, lunged at me.

Youve gone mad! Those are his things!

They were his. Now they are yours, I replied, not turning. I retrieved his laptop, placed it in a special compartment. Tool for finding purposeor watching serials, depending on your enlightenment.

Finally, his shoes tumbled in with a dull thump, as if stones. I slammed the suitcase shut with a clang, locked the latches, then pulled the handle and rolled it to within a foot of Mrs. Whitmores boots.

I stared at both of them, my gaze long, heavy, void of pain or regretonly a cold, burned emptiness. I looked straight into Mrs. Whitmores eyes.

You said your son was gifted. Take your gift back. Ive had my fill. Return it to the maker.

Then I turned, never looking back, and left the kitchen. They were left alone: the bewildered genius, his flushed mother, and the suitcase standing between them like a tombstone marking the ruin of a family life. An oppressive silence fell over the flat, one that would never again be broken by the chatter of everyday domesticity.